Anders Roslund - The Beast

He started the car and drove unhesitatingly to the Television Centre.

It was three years since he had last seen Vincent Carlsson. He had just moved from newspaper journalism to the national newsdesk of the Rapport and Aktuellt programmes when Fredrik had come to see him. Vincent’s place had been at the back of a huge room, where he spent most of his time distributing e-mails and short news items to the buzzing hive of reporters. About a year ago, he had moved to the morning news. As he described it, his new job consisted of carving up events and make news soup from the pieces. He had been made a functional unit in the big news factory, and what with having acquired a wife and children, the regular routine suited him just fine.

After a stroppy porter had made Fredrik wait for the statutory ten minutes, Vincent came down to meet him.

Through the glass window into the corridor Fredrik could see that his old friend hadn’t changed; he was tall and dark and kind, with a personal charisma that made him the type of man that women smiled at. They had been to journalism college together, often gone out for drinks in the evening, at which point Vincent would eye up the most delicious bird around and announce that he had to have her. He always got his way; he’d go up to her, chat and smile and laugh and touch her arm and her shoulders and then they’d suddenly leave together. He was like that; it was easy to become fond of him and impossible to tell him to go jump even when he deserved it.

Vincent made the porter open up.

‘Fredrik, what are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?’

‘Five o’clock.’

‘Quarter past, actually.’

They were walking along a corridor without an end in sight. Blue lino, chalk-white walls.

‘I’d thought I’d get in touch,’ Vincent went on. ‘Not as a journalist, of course. But I was afraid to… disturb you. I couldn’t think what I could say, without it sounding… wrong.’

‘We buried Marie yesterday.’

Fredrik realised that he wasn’t making it any easier for his old friend, that he was helpless in the face of something he would never grasp.

‘Listen, you don’t have to say anything. I know you’ve thought about it and I appreciate that. But honestly, just give it a miss. It’s not what I need now.’

The endless corridor became another corridor.

‘What do you need then? You know I’m always happy to see you, whatever the reason, but you’re looking so fucking grim. And why just now, early in the morning the day after Marie’s funeral?’

They went upstairs, then past the big newsroom.

‘I need your help with something. You can do it, I know. And it’s the only help I need now.’

Vincent led the way into a room with desks in three of its corners.

‘The newsroom is no good. You’d hate it. We broadcast stuff about Lund and you and Marie and policemen all day long. They’d get frantically interested to see you walk in. This is better and nobody comes here before eight o’clock.’

He wandered off to get them both a mug of coffee.

‘Here. Drink this, you look like you need it.’

They drank some coffee in silence; a minute or so passed while they avoided each other’s eyes.

‘Listen, we’ve plenty of time. I’ve asked the other editor to take over my bit for a while. She is terrific, much better than me. All the viewer will notice is a clear programming improvement.’

Fredrik reached out to pull a cigarette from a packet on another desk.

‘All right if I take a fag?’

‘I thought you stopped smoking ages ago.’

‘I’ve just started again.’ He extracted a cigarette, no filter, a foreign brand that he didn’t recognise.

For a moment they sat in a white mist of smoke.

‘Vincent, do you remember the last time you helped me out?’

‘Sure do. You were worried about Agnes.’

‘I thought she was shagging that bloody awful economist. I was wrong. But it was thanks to you that I got to know what kind of bloke he was.’

‘So, what next?’ Vincent waved a little irritably at the tobacco-smelling cloud and Fredrik stubbed his cigarette out in his coffee mug.

‘More of the same, please.’

‘Same what?’

‘Personal data. Absolutely anything you can find.’

‘And who am I supposed to check?’

Fredrik pulled out a note from the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘640517-0350.’

‘Really? And who’s that?’

‘It’s Bernt Lund’s ID number.’

They had argued afterwards. Their voices rose, the arguments crossed each other, but it was a confrontation in which compassion won out. Now they were close to an agreement.

‘It’s not that I’m breaking the law, because strictly speaking I’m not. But I am trampling on what I believed our friendship to be, breaking its rules.’

‘Not at all.’

‘How can you say that? If I help you find personal data on the man who killed your child, then I’m doing the one thing for you that I shouldn’t.’

‘Only this. It’s all I need.’

‘You’re on a slippery slope, very much so.’

‘Stop debating issues, for Christ’s sake. Just help me.’

Vincent stood for a moment, to signal what he’d prefer to do. Then he sat down again and switched on the nearest computer.

‘Now what?’

‘What?’

‘What’s the fucking data you want?’

‘I want everything. Everything you can find.’

Incoming e-mails were stacking on the screen, on top of the morning schedules. Vincent moved the lot, found the right dialogue box, keyed in a name and a password, and the database homepage flickered into life. A list of links to other databases. Company Register, Trade and Trade Associations Register, Swedish Business Information Service, Automobile Register, Address Register, Property Register.

‘The number. You had it, his ID number.’

‘640517-0350.’

The screen flickered. It was a hit.

‘Let’s go. You want to know where he has stayed?’

The morning sun had reached the glazed wall of the office. The still air grew warm.

‘Is it OK to open the window? It’s getting hard to breathe.’

‘Go ahead.’

Fredrik rose and opened two of the windows wide. He hadn’t realised how the light-coloured suit had made him sweat. He breathed in deeply, once, twice. Vincent’s arm went up in the air.

‘Bernt Asmodeus Lund. The last entry is a care-of address.’

‘And?’

‘Care of Håkan Axelsson, Skeppar Street 12. Somewhere in Östermalm. But it’s from quite a few years ago; presumably Lund has been kept locked up since then. Otherwise, nothing. Skeppar Street is the last on record.’

Fredrik stood behind Vincent now, his back still aching from sleeping jammed into the car. The fresh air felt good, though.

‘What about earlier addresses?’

‘There are two. First, going back in time, Kung Street 3, in Enköping, and before that, Nelson Lane, Piteå.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Everything that’s recorded here. If you want older addresses still, you’ve got to contact the tax office in Piteå.’

‘Fine, that’s enough for now. But there must be more facts. I want all the facts.’

Fredrik kept his place behind Vincent for nearly an hour, making notes on the flimsy in-house stationery. He had found a pad on the desk with the packet of cigarettes.

Bernt Lund had been registered as the owner of a property in Vetlanda, a block of flats in a remarkably high taxation band at an address in the outskirts of the small town.

The business transaction data included a long list of unpaid debts. His Inland Revenue account was in the red and he had failed to pay his state education loans. Several attempts to recover his assets had been made and failed.